The Moron Factory

April 20:
Sometimes feel life stinks, everything bad/getting worse, everyone doomed.

Then day like today occurs, reminding one that yes, although life stinks, does not always stink to same extent, i.e., variation can occur in extent to which life, from day to day, may stink.

Today strange.

Strange day at work.

Sally Gear = extremely tall co-worker with perpetual explosion of unbrushed gray hair. Nice lady. Many kids: three from previous marriage, four adopted. Plus, usually, one or two foster kids. Also 12 cats, nine dogs, five rescued ferrets, all living on run-down farm outside of town. Is always explaining: reason she looks so bad/ragged = totally swamped with kids/adopted kids/foster kids/pets/farm. Her husband, Sid, also tall, w/ same gray hair-explosion. When together, always laughing, leaning into each other, looking unkempt, happy, bellowing out story re latest wacky thing done by kid, foster kid, ferret, and/or donkey they keep tied to tree. When Sid comes to office to pick Sally up, will say, “So this is how they do it in the big city!” or “Say, this is one heckuva fancy orifice!” (Which is odd: Sid not country, Sid = Wesleyan grad, grew up in Philadelphia, family owned famous shoe store.)

This week, one of their foster kids selling candy bars for Swim Team. Sally has put box of candy bars in Break Area, with sign: DON’T BE ALL WET! BUY A CANDY BAR FROM TERRENCE.

Liv VanUster annoyed by presence of candy bars, emails Sally: this = place of business. How would Sally like it if she, Liv, brought in ton of magazines, encouraged all to buy magazines, for her Women’s Personal History Group? Sally says sure, no problem, she can just scoot candy bars over. What magazines do they have anyway? Any about ferrets/foster kids/growing organic vegetables in limited space?

Liv emails back: no, Sally missing point. Sally being rude, making it impossible for people to decline to buy crappo candy bars, i.e., Sally letting her weird life choices overflow into Break Area.

Liv = tough = big complainer. Complains if someone tracks in snow: slip-and-trip hazard. Once complained janitor had given her “predatory glance,” demanded that Ed Finer (our boss) reprimand janitor. Turned out, janitor legally blind. Was not giving predatory glance, was trying to ascertain if thing on Liv’s lapel = spider.

Liv apologized to janitor, rushed back to Finer, said that although, yes, she is, of course, #1 advocate for visually impaired, on other hand, why pay blind janitor full salary, since blind janitor likely incapable of getting anything truly clean?

Sally hurt by Liv’s email. Replies to entire office. Says her life choices not “weird.” Swim Team “weird”? Having husband “weird”? Having kids “weird”? Having certain modicum of warmth/affection in life “weird”?

This raises ante: Liv single, never married, no kids, no current boyfriend.

Office tense all morning.

Just before lunch, Liv sends Sally email of apology, also to entire office:

Sally, I was out of line. It was rude of me to characterize your life as “weird.” Many apologies. Your life actually strikes me as admirable: the kids, the pets, the ferrets. Wow. You do so much for others. Sometimes my own unhappiness will drive me to become overinvolved in things that might easily be overlooked. Please trust that I am working on this. I sincerely apologize.

Everyone impressed. This gracious, this surprising, should end whole thing.

But no.

Within minutes, Sally replies:

Nice try, Liv. That is so typical! You get your dig in, then retreat to higher ground? “Your life actually strikes me as admirable.” Ha! I bet. My hubby may be bony and countrified but at least I’ve GOT one. You have the nerve to call my life weird? Then real quick apologize, as if you are all holy? Everyone knows you color your hair! I am sick and tired of your fakeness. You jabbed me and now have got me going. Not going to fly, sister. You wear makeup like clown makeup. Stay out of my way or I don’t know what might happen.

This crazy. This not like Sally. Sally kind. Sally sweet. Often so happy in morning, will do jig in Break Room. Will sometimes, for no reason, make brownies at home, bring brownie to desk of each person in office, with person’s initials, in M&Ms, on brownie.

Apparently, Liv has hit nerve.

Finer calls Sally in. Tells Sally enough = enough: Liv has apologized, is time for Sally to accept Liv’s apology, put this behind us.

Sally storms out, sends email in which she says she knows everyone against her, everyone siding with “sneak-thief,” just because “sneak-thief” = wealthier, younger, more attractive.

This dubious. Liv possibly wealthier. But younger? No. Sally younger. Liv more attractive? Debatable, Kate G. says, in Break Area. Sally has weird gray hair-explosion, true, but, Kate points out, Liv has prominent jaw + is strangely wide at hip.

Finer goes to Sally’s office to talk her down. Sally gone (!). All her stuff gone. Pics of her ferrets gone, special clogging shoes + apron gone, box of Swim Team candy, formerly in Break Area, gone.

On Post-it note on Sally’s desk: I QUIT!!!

Rest of morning, Liv roams around office like martyred queen, saying she did her best, does not know how else she might have handled, feels she bent over backwards to pull thing out of fire, etc.

All confident Sally will be back. Sally/Sid not rich. Kids + foster kids + animals not cheap. Plus, Sid has bad knees, extreme asthma, cannot work outside of home/farm, i.e., no way Sid + Sally can make it without Sally’s paycheck.

Have lunch in Finer’s office, with Finer. Jill (my wife, my person, we have been through wars together) texts: How are things @ Moron Factory?

(As joke, between selves, we sometimes call my workplace “Moron Factory.” Re my workplace, Jill pities me. Comes to office Christmas party, is bored/annoyed whole time, rolling eyes if anyone talks shop. Her attitude: Sweetie, these people, my God, you are true champ, how do you even bear? Is true: our office odd. No one stable. Everyone nuts in his/her own way. Usually, at work, I keep to self. Don’t socialize. Just do my work, head straight home.)

Just then, Paige (receptionist) calls, says Sid calling, for Finer.

Finer raises eyebrows at me, puts Sid on speaker:

Sid: Ed, are you sitting down?

Finer is. Is sitting. Ergo, can honestly say yes, he is sitting.

Sid, on speaker: Sally’s gone.

Finer: Where’d she go?

Sid: She’s dead.

Finer freezes. Was about to pick up pen, tap lamp with pen in way he does when bored. But now: no. Hand frozen over pen in shape of hand about to pick up pen, he widens eyes at me, as in: This really happening?

Sid: Her poor old heart finally gave out. Because of you people. That gal was such a softie. But you people harried her and condescended to her and insulted her and never gave her the time of day.

Finer protests: We did, we did give Sally time of day. We liked Sally, loved Sally. Hopes Sid will recall last August, pool party at Finer’s house, when all sang “Happy Birthday” to Sally as Sally stood blushing at shallow end of pool holding overflowing plate of nachos.

Sid breaks down. Seems to drop phone. Can hear him sobbing. Dog barks, truck goes past, donkey brays from out in yard, presumably tied to tree.

Finer calls office-wide meeting to announce Sally = dead.

Weeping breaks out. Oh, Sally, we feel, you were always just there, passing out your brownies, giving each of us a cheerful word, bringing our copies to us if we had left them on the Minolta, coming in dressed as witch on Halloween when no one else even wearing costume, taking trouble, whenever someone dropped by your office, to quickly don long, warty nose, then cackle.

All examining own consciences. What harsh things did we say to Sally over years? What nice things? What jokes did we make behind back of Sally? Well, we feel, cannot just go around all day, assuring every person he or she = valued. Even cavemen, in ancient, simpler times, could not merely sit around in cave admiring/praising one another, but had to hunt, fight, compete with members of own group for status.

All feel a bit sick.

I go down, sit a moment in Sally’s empty office. Look at own hands. These hands someday dead, bluish, crossed on chest? Cross hands on chest. Think: Sally dead. Just this morning, was right here, alive. Now, no. Just then, someone passes in hallway. Yikes, I think, did he/she see me sitting in chair of recently dead lady, crossing hands over chest like corpse in coffin? Spring to feet. Step briskly into hall. Moving steadily away down hall: Maxine. Maxine turns, gives me wave + sad smile, quality of which indicates she did not, thank God, see me imitating posture of Sally dead in coffin.

Dodged bullet there.

Life not easy. Life = tightrope. Most days, we stroll along rope, all fine, gazing off at distant hills, making future plans. But down below: those who have fallen. For them, all not fine. No future plans. Glad that not me, we may think. But ultimately, we too will fall. All must. Trouble will find us, shake tightrope, down we too will fall.

Today, Sally has fallen, Sid has fallen.

We, as office, have fallen.

How might we, as office, begin to make amends?

Raise money for charity of Sid’s choice? Foster care? American Heart Association? Donkeys who are sick? Donate money directly to Sid, who, no doubt, will need?

Go to see Finer. He is in there with someone, door closed.

Must wait.

Out little window overlooking Parking: our Taurus. Baby rattle on dash. Not our baby’s rattle. We have no baby. Chose not to. Also, could not, as it turned out. Actually, was other way around: wanted, found out could not have, decided did not want. This was years ago. Big drama at time. All fine now. Tershers, friends of ours, came to town last month, left behind rattle of their baby (Marco). Tershers live across state. Could mail rattle. But postage = double price of rattle. Could just throw rattle away. Is cheap rattle. But throwing away rattle sans Tershers’ permission seems weird. But also seems weird to call Tershers, say, Hey, okay to toss your rattle? Tershers may feel: Oh, gosh, right, sad: sight of our rattle must remind them they have no baby. But no. Does not. Or, rather, maybe does, slightly, i.e., every time I get in car, see rattle, I think: Still fine we have no baby? Then assure self: yes, yes, of course, still fine, that ship sailed long ago, are at peace with, we two have great life full of laughs + tenderness.

Door flies open, Liv bolts out.

Inside, Finer has head down on desk.

Says Liv just told him most horrible story: When teen, Liv got in huge fight with dad. That night, dad cut off own leg with chain saw in woods, bled out while attempting to crawl back to house. Dad had owned chain saw for years, never used, did not know how to use, but that night, upset with certain things Liv said during fight re his failings (too passive + wishy-washy), made big manly point of storming decisively out of house into woods, taking chain saw, with which he had zero experience, accidentally applied chain saw to large boulder that he, in dark, believed to be stump. Crawling back to house, bleeding out, wrote note on back of shopping list, only too bad: big storm swept in, rain fell all night, so, by time they found dad dead in morning, his note = too smudged to read.

Today, Liv having flashback: feels she once again caused tragic event via reckless speech, i.e., picked fight with Sally, sent Sally over edge, gave Sally heart attack, i.e., “killed” Sally.

I suggest we go find Liv, comfort Liv. Finer: Yes, yes, of course, how stupid and thoughtless am I?

However, Liv not in her office. Nowhere to be found. Paige (receptionist) says Liv raced past in huff, appearing “muy weirded-out,” briefly paused at door, as if could not recall how to open. Paige rose, opened door, Liv thanked Paige, albeit calling her “Piper.”

Leaving work not like Liv. At all. Liv super-responsible. When having appendix out, Liv constantly texting Finer from hospital bed, reminding Finer they had agreed that new coffee maker in Break Room must meet or exceed quality of current coffee maker. Immediately post-surgery, Liv dictated text to nurse, specifying acceptable models, suggesting Finer poll office on desired color.

Finer = former military. Saw some things over there. Way we know this is: he never talks about. If someone asks if he saw some things, he will say: No, had quiet tour, mostly did ordering for cafeteria. Then his face will change in way that makes anyone seeing it doubt what Finer has just said re not having seen some things.

At moment, Finer = mess.

Asks me to send flowers to Sid. On day of service, you mean? I say. Finer says yes, day of service, right, for sure. But also today. We’re sending flowers twice. At least. Two separate sets of flowers. He feels so bad. This happened in office of which he was in charge? What does this say about his leadership style? Not sure he will ever live down, ever feel better about. Wants Sid to know we are thinking of him. Not enough flowers in world, he feels, to make this thing up to Sid.

I mention my idea of starting fund for Sid. Finer feels this may be one too many. Does not want to concede liability for Sally’s death. Oh God, he says, listen to me, Mr. Corporate, evading responsibility already. No, yes, that great idea, he says, let’s do fund. Also, let’s get Sid on horn immediately, give direct, heartfelt apology, accept all blame, see if there is anything at all, even smallest thing, we can do for Sid, poor Sid, after which we’ll send first set of flowers, get started on details of fund.

Call Sid.

Guess who answers?

Sally (!).

Finer: You’re not dead?

Sally: Not that I know of.

Long pause.

Sally (yelling): Sid, you jamoke! You didn’t! Why would you? I told you no! What a dumb idea, Butch!

Sid takes phone, apologizes. Says if we are wondering who Butch is, is him. Sally sometimes will call him Butch. Is pet name. As for death business? Sorry, sorry, bad call. That on him. Loves Sally so much, was going just nutty watching her mope all heartbroken around house feeling undervalued. He did not, perhaps, it would now appear, think thing all the way through. Double-dang-it. Is deeply sorry for any confusion he may have caused, promises he will never do again.

Sally, in background: You won’t do it again, Butch? You think? Are you out of your gourd? Damn straight, dingbat!

Sally grabs phone, says she is coming in, will be right down.

Fifteen minutes later, all dressed up, in suit, hair combed for once, she arrives, goes around from office to office, apologizing on Sid’s behalf.

Is strange. No one mad. Sally so dignified. Because all believed her dead, she is now like celeb. Many pull her aside to tell her how dear she is to them, how often, over the years, they have found selves wondering, “What would Sally do?,” how sad it has been today to walk past her office, not be greeted by crumpled-up paper ball rolling into hall which would, when unwrapped, be found to say, “Come on in, you!” or “Work SUX!”

Finer glowingly watching Sally accepting hug after hug. Asks me to call Liv at home, tell her good news, i.e., Sally = not dead after all.

I dial, put phone on speaker.

No answer. Message new. Old message: professional, crisp. Included numbered lists of categories into which caller should place his or her call. New message: “You’ve reached Liv. Who is not available. Ever again. Where I go now, I should have gone long ago.”

Yikes, we feel. All have heard rumor re Liv’s recent breakup with nutty spa-supply salesman, Wayne: she did not, in fact, go to Italy to learn to make pasta in authentic way but, rather, in bathroom at Denny’s on Clover, lit several candles, which she had snuck into bathroom in tote, then took many pills, nearly died, was given CPR by special-needs bus girl, recuperated for month at sister’s tiny apartment in Blanket Farm Estates, out near airport.

We leave message. Leave two messages, three. Just keep calling.

Soon voicemail full.

Finer and I fly off through town in my Taurus. Finer gives me glance, as in: Why rattle on dash of guy with no baby? Tosses rattle into glove box, slams glove box closed.

Everywhere people moving around, happy to be alive. On Tooley Bridge, under fat white clouds, two friends throw arms around each other, each holding cup of coffee far out from body so as not to spill on other while hugging. In front of hospital, old man talking to equally old woman makes motion of throwing football, does victory shimmy, she shakes head as in: That, my friend = one bad shimmy.

Finer says, tensely, that, at end of day, Liv savvy, Liv smart, Liv too egotistical to kill self.

Me: Hope so.

Him: Oh God. If she does? If she has? Already? That’s the end of me. I mean it. I had a thing happen. When I was serving. Did I ever tell you?

Me: No.

Him: Later.

We arrive at Liv’s.

Through front window: lit candles everywhere (on coffee table, atop microwave, all the way up staircase). At kitchen table: Liv, slumping, looking like she is in hell of own making, several bottles of pills spread out before her on table, rifle (!) in lap.

What to do? Am afraid to knock on window. May push Liv over edge (?). On other hand, if do not knock, Liv may take pills or suddenly shoot self before we have chance to convey happy news re Sally (i.e., Sally = not dead).

Tense moment. Wish I was anywhere else. But Finer bold, Finer hero: knocks sharply on window, shouts: Liv, open up! Liv doesn’t budge. Finer punches out window (!), reaches in, opens window, climbs through. Liv sits frozen, watching him come, as if she wishes to be saved but cannot possibly imagine what might do trick.

Finer: Sally’s alive, Sid’s a big a-hole. You did no harm: everything’s fine, all is well.

Liv stands slowly, sets rifle on table gently, as if afraid it may go off on own.

Finer’s arm, shoulder bleeding from broken window. Liv holds up finger, as in: wait. Walks off, comes back with first-aid kit, has Finer remove shirt, sits on chair before him, tends to his wounds, picking out shards, putting bloody shards on table, applying salve.

We drive back to office, Finer in back, Liv in front w/ me, looking out window. All three silent whole time.

Odd: everyone gone from streets. Town like empty stage. Purple clouds rolling in. Papers racing along sidewalks in wind, as if rushing home to common apartment complex where all loose pieces of paper required to live.

At office, Sally is in Bullpen, telling funny story re their donkey in lively way to small group of rapt admirers.

Turns, sees Liv.

Am watching Liv’s face. Anger flares up, replaced by look of: No, no, anger must find no home in me, am done with that, it has cost me too much these many years.

Sally gestures to Liv: Come, come here, please forgive. Liv hesitates, does awkward stumble toward her, drops head onto Sally’s shoulder.

Just then, Sid hobbles in. Has been waiting out in car, per Sally’s orders, he says, for nearly two hours, reading newspaper as instructed, but is tired; is so hot in car, is sweating like pig, has read entire paper three times, knows all news by heart, time to go home.

Sid looks even more agitated + flinchy than usual, as if, in addition to expecting to be referred to as hick for his country ways, is also expecting to be called liar, be banned forever from premises. At sight of Sid, all anger flees room. Office, at the moment, if I may say it this way = swollen with mercy.

Sid, sensing he has been forgiven by group, lopes across Bullpen in ungainly way, on wobbly long legs, seizes Sally’s hand + Liv’s hand, shakes resulting hand-cluster overhead, as in: Winners, still champions!

What does it even mean? Are not winners, are not champs of anything. If anything, are champs of being difficult, goofballs, needy, problematic.

I sneak away, call Jill.

How to tell her all that has occurred?

Decide to wait. Will tell all tonight, at length.

For now, just want to hear her voice.

Jill: What is up with you? You sound high.

Is true, yes, am high, a bit.

Tell her I will give her full scoop later.

Jill (dryly): Can’t wait.

Finer orders pizza, Kate G. puts on music, Paige (receptionist) throws open windows to let crazy pre-rain breeze blow through.

In Bullpen, improbably, colleagues begin dancing. Strange to see colleagues dancing in Bullpen space where we normally spread out in-progress reports, store broken printers, leave our bikes, if have biked to work. Colleagues = non-good dancers. All trying, at least. One will catch eye of other, as in: Can you believe we are doing? + Don’t laugh at me, I won’t laugh at you.

Pizza guy bursts in, chin on top box of stack, as if chin’s job is to hold big stack steady. So young. Mere child. Red cheeks, yellow pants, purple hair. Shoots room baffled look, as in: What gives? Why you oldsters dancing in socks to quaint old-time music? Why so happy? Do you not know you are wasting lives in dull corporate space? Unlike me, who will soon take world by storm?

Feel like saying: Yes, guilty, are happy. Today, lost none of our number. All still here. Will not be here forever. But all here now.

Finer calls out from Bullpen: T! T!

(I am Thomas. Hence = “T.”)

Finer: Dance with us, brother!

What is there to do but join?

This story appears in the March 2025 print edition.